Alison Tyler - Alison's Wonderland

Next was a regular, and Philomena knew exactly what would be in his stack when he started self-checkout. Second World War, civil war, Korean War. War buff. Mr. Sinclair was his name, and he flirted shamelessly, but was 110 percent harmless. “Are they getting the upstairs all squared away then, Ms. Troll?” His voice was a mellifluous balm after the rattle and racket from the second floor.

“Not soon enough, Mr. Sinclair.”

He slid his stack over her way and cleaned his glasses with his shirttail. “I can tell you’re a wee bit worked up over the upheaval.”

Some insistent buzzing thump came from above her head and she cringed. “Yes, well…” More dirt! Right into her keyboard and right on top of Mr. Sinclair’s bald pate. A rage of blush fired her cheeks and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Still, Philomena threw back her head and though she tried not to, she howled, “Why are you walking over my head, Billy…the middle one!”

The middle Billy—dark blond hair with snowy-blue eyes—stopped and squatted. He gazed down at her, a mischievous grin split his rugged features. “Sorry, there, Philomena.”

“Ms. Troll!” The words ripped out so fiercely that her throat hurt. Mr. Sinclair’s watery brown eyes flew wide. The dirt on his scalp slid to the left. “So sorry, Mr. Sinclair. My deepest apologies.”

“Ms. Troll, I was told to plug in the sander, and the three-pronged outlet is right under the switch plate. So…” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. If it’s a problem, I can send Billy. Big Billy.” He chuckled, stood and his boots threw off more ick as he went. She dodged, and Mr. Sinclair scuttled off with his goods.

What could she say? Nothing. And she most certainly did not want to deal with Big Billy any more than necessary since he seemed to scramble her brain faster than a martini. Philomena wasn’t much of a drinker, and she didn’t seem to be much in the way of handling big handsome contractors with flashing green eyes.

Again with the cleaner and towels. Philomena kept looking up. She felt watched. Maybe it was simply the bizarre and overtly steamy mental movie playing in her head that had her on edge. No matter how hard she scrubbed the counter, she could imagine kissing him. That big, huge, irritating man. Kissing him on the lips and down over the stubbly jut of his jaw. Biting just below where his pulse jumped in a steady beat and down along his broad throat. Over the swell of his Adam’s apple, and then her kisses, in her head at least, went due south and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. She could shut her eyes and feel the heat of his mouth closing over her nipple, tracing her hipbone and then lower still. Parting her legs and then feeling his lips, so close to where she wanted him, kissing the very top of her thighs. How would it feel to have his lips on her clit, probing her? How would his kisses feel when his heat closed over her willing pussy and licked her until she clutched the bedsheets in her trembling hands and—

Something hit Philomena on the head. Something hard. Definitely not dirt. Her eyes flew wide. “What the hell!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She ran her fingers over her scalp. Then she spotted the weapon. A blue ballpoint pen on the floor. “Simon! Simon?” One of the assistants came scuttling out.

“Yes, Ms. Troll?”

“Watch the counter.” Her eyes had found him. Over her. Hovering. Smiling!

“Oops! Sorry, Ms. Troll. I had to hook up the—”

Big Billy. The main man. The head honcho. The thorn in her side. The burr in her ass. Philomena pointed a finger at him and glared. “Stay. Right. There. Mr. Benjamin, I am coming.”

“I look forward to it.”

She blinked and her body responded with a warm flickering wave of excitement. “Do not be crude! Do. Not. Move.”

Simon looked as if he wanted to die on the spot. Instead, he wiped the counter again. Hers would be the cleanest counter in the land when all was said and done. Philomena stormed up the wide, stone steps, trying so hard to force aside the mental images that had her melting hot so that the anger that had her equally hot could emerge.

He had listened. There he stood, poised on the intricate floor, dirty work boots in a defiant stance. He held an industrial yellow three-pronged plug in one hand. His beat-up, faded jeans slung low on his hips and his cocky smile spread on his lips. “Mr. Benjamin!”

“Ma’am?”

“I…” Philomena blinked. What? You must work but you cannot plug that in? How dare you try for electricity? A grounded outlet? What?

“Yes?” He took a step toward her just as one of the other Billys, unseen at this point, fired some big machine in the rear of the stacks.

“I…I am very concerned because…” Damn. There she went again, trailing off. Her mind taking a right turn and putting her on her back with this big, dusty, cocky man climbing on top of her. Somewhere in the mental scenario he had lost his shirt. How had that happened? And a hard ridge of male excitement pressed the faded cotton of his fly.

“Because I didn’t obey?”

“Well, yes. I am the—”

“The boss. You are the boss. You’re used to being the boss, aren’t you, Troll?” He took three big steps and there he was again, in her personal space. Invading her turf. Setting her on edge. But in the most bizarre way. Her nose tingled with the dark and spicy scent of him. Her nipples peaked, and between her legs she went hot and wet in the blink of an eye. Her hands turned to fists and her heart felt as though it would pound its way right out of her chest.

“I…I…”

Billy Benjamin leaned in so that only the smallest slice of air rested between their lips. “You might write the checks, but you are not the boss of me, Troll.”

“ Ms. Troll.”

He leaned in farther still and Philomena heard her heart over all of it. Over what sounded like a sander and someone hammering and the rain on the skylight in the archives above them. Thunder boomed outside, and inside the cage of her chest.

“I…” She smacked him. That fast, out of nowhere. Her hand landed and they both made surprised noises at once. His low and guttural, hers high and breathy. “Oh, my God. I am so, so very sor—”

He didn’t let her finish. He grabbed both of her fluttering wrists in his harsh grip and dropped the thick yellow snake of cord. “You think you rule the world down there under the fancy floor. Barking up orders and making our job that much harder. You think you are so scary, Philomena. But you’re not. My God, look how small you are! And you do a piss-poor job of handling sexual tension.”

He pushed her into a small storage room and shut the door. Philomena did her best to bark out a sarcastic laugh as if to say, You don’t scare me, you dirty labor person! Instead, the noise became some kind of sultry sigh that made even Billy Benjamin pause. She caught herself then. “There is no sexual tension. You are clearly insane.”

“Yeah?” He stepped into her then. His belly to hers. The fly of his jeans to the skirt of her dress. His broad hard chest to her wildly struggling breast. Her body tried so hard to suck in air, but all she managed to take in was more and more of the scent of him.

“Mr. Benjamin—” That was as far as she got when his hands clamped down on her hips. Without thinking, Philomena pushed her pelvis to his pelvis. She slid her body against his, feeling his hard cock between her legs. Wishing she was feeling it sans fabric and panties. He seemed to read her mind, because his hands bunched the fabric of her dress in his hands, hiking it up, drawing the dress up slowly like a curtain. Then he lost his patience and shoved his hands under the hem. Fingers on her hosiery. She started to wiggle to help them down, but Billy had other plans. The sound of her nylons tearing filled the teeny, tiny closet.